


A Little Easier

by Anythingtoasted



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-10
Updated: 2012-09-10
Packaged: 2017-11-13 23:48:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/509086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anythingtoasted/pseuds/Anythingtoasted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not even especially that he misses him. (Deancas, post-S7 ep 1, drabble)</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Little Easier

It’s not even especially that he misses him.

He takes the coat from the car sometimes, when Sam isn’t around to look at him, though his hand skirts it whenever he opens the trunk, and that alone earns him the kind of look from Sam that could make him spontaneously grow ovaries.  He knows the look is well-meaning; that mostly, all Sam is trying to say is what he’s always said, which is ‘ _I’ll get the chocolates and ‘Steel Magnolias’, you get the Kleenex and we’ll talk about our feelings’_ but honestly he can’t think of anything worse, so he’s played mostly dumb about it for the last thirty or so years. Besides, when it comes to _communication,_ Sam isn’t exactly a saint, either.

But Sam has never seen him do this; if he did, Dean knows he’d _neve_ r fucking shut up about it.

He’s okay. This is a shitty situation, but shitty things happen to the Winchesters all the time – unfortunate side effect of being cursed – and he can _deal_ with shitty, he’s _used_ to shitty.

But it’s undeniable that some things, sometimes, help.

He takes the coat from the car sometimes when Sam isn’t looking – he’ll sneak out of whatever motel they’re staying in that night, when he inevitably can’t sleep, at 2am when Sam is snoring fitfully against a pillow, his big mouth wide open and huffing. He’ll go to the back of the car and take the coat out, still folded, now dry.

He’ll take it back into the motel room and put it under his pillow, even though he’ll have to wake up early and put it back; even though it makes _no fucking sense to do this at all_.

He’ll press his nose against the pillow, close his eyes, and breathe it in, ozone and _clean,_ the bare, outdoor tang of the lake water just lingering on the edges. It smells like nothing, really, or it would if he didn’t know it so well; it is outdoors, it is bright, blinding sun. He thinks (though he’s probably being stupid) that it smells a little like himself, too.

It helps sometimes; that’s all. It makes his dreams gentler; it makes sleep come more easily; like when his dad found him curled up with one of Mom’s old skirts, and boy, that had been awkward; and he’d had to throw it away.

It just helps. That’s all there is.

He doesn’t really think about it often. 


End file.
